


The Glory Age

by MaryDragon



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - RPG
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tabletop Gaming, DA RPG, Gen, Homebrew, head canons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:44:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDragon/pseuds/MaryDragon
Summary: This is not the Thedas you know.The Blight has devastated the world for a second time; entire lifetimes passed under the threat of Zazikel.Nevarra is a city-state in the Free Marches, Tevinter yet follows the White Divine in Val Royeaux, the elves control the Dales, and Ferelden is just the name of the Valley fought over by the Alamarri tribes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am beginning to run a not-quite-weekly tabletop game in the DA universe. We are playing with the DA RPG Rulebook with a few limited modifications and house rules. I will write up the story after sessions and post it here.   
> Players:  
> My husband, Brian, is Helfgar.  
> My brother, Jayson, is Octreimon.  
> (at least one, maybe two other players to be added later)

The Blight is ended. After a long period of fear and turmoil, Thedas is once again at peace.

The unity that is found when darkspawn rampage across the nations of Thedas is short-lived once the arch demon who raised them is fallen. The longer the Blight, it seems, the more fleeting the peace that comes after.

Zazikel was slain in Starkhaven but 9 years ago, and already the lands shift with unrest.

Some sense it, revel in it, and jostle to position themselves to benefit when the dams inevitably burst.

Others have more... pressing concerns.

It is nigh noon, on a sunny day in late spring, when young altus Octreimon Vorlant stumbled upon his first Alamarri.

He knew much about the barbarians of the south, of course. There were yet stories coming from more isolated farms in the south of Tevinter of artifacts being dug up in fallow earth from the great invasion of Alamarri behind Maferath and Blessed Andraste. There were rumors that the prophet’s ashes had been hidden somewhere in the mountains Octreimon had found himself at the foot of, so the presence of one of the hillman was unexpected but not unbelievable.

From a closer inspection, the man appeared to be of the _Avvar_ clan of Alamarri. He seemed to be fair of complexion, but it was difficult to be sure; he was filthy, and brutish, and seemed to have the iconography on his shield scratched off. He was also, Octreimon noticed with a start, staring at the altus with his spear at the ready and a cautious set to his stance.

“Hello?”

“Oh, yes! Why, um, hello!”

“Why do you go about alone and unarmed?”

Octreimon thumped his staff – erm, _walking stick_ – against the forest floor. “I am armed well enough.”

The Avvar seemed to consider it a moment and then nodded. “Have you a name?”

“Octreimon Vorlant of house Vorlant, recently removed from Marothius. And you?”

“Helfgar,” the big man replied. He looked as if there was more to say, but he swallowed whatever other names with a grimace of regret.

“Right. Well. How come you to leave the mountains?” Octreimon inquired, aiming for politeness. Normally he wouldn’t bother with the hillman, but at the moment... well. He was rather out of options.

“Long story,” the man grunted.

“Can you make it short?”

“My clan was starving. I suggested we trade with the... _Clayne_ ,” he said the name with a twist of bitterness, like he was supposed to spit but couldn’t drum up the wherewithal to bother. “My clan chief disagreed. Also, he coveted my wife. It was an excuse, really. And now here I am, trying not to starve.”

“Oh. I’m... I’m sorry.” He cast about for a moment for some meaningful gesture, and settled upon handing the hillman a skin of water. “Here. Are you thirsty?”

“I feel I shouldn’t be, as the air is thick in these woods, but aye. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Octreimon said, dismissing the gratitude quite magnanimously, he thought. “Clean water is commonplace in the Dales.”

Helfgar snorted. “Right. And you? Where do you hail from?”

“Have you heard of Tevinter?”

Helfgar snorted again, although with less humor and more disdain. “Aye, a time or two.”

“Right. Well. I’m from Tevinter. I had more of an interest in books than becoming a Magister... knowledge, really, moreso than power. It was rather bewildering to my father and I decided it was past time for me to leave.”

Octreimon was interrupted mid-sentence by a loud rumbling in his midsection. He opened his mouth to apologize, only to hear the same ominous rumble from the hillman.

“Right. You’re a lowlander. Where could we go about finding food in these lands?”

Octreimon froze. If he was honest, he was horribly lost and rather brutally disillusioned. He hadn’t been raised to value honesty.

“Yes, of course! This way.”

With a jerk to his head to indicate a game track winding roughly north, Helfgar nodded and fell into step a comfortable distance away from the altus. “Tevinter is far from here, lowlander.”

“Yes. Well. What I need is here.”

“What is it you need?”

With a short nod, Octreimon whipped his pack around so it dangled in front of him, slipped open the straps belting it shut, and pulled out a book in a practiced motion. “Here, it is easier to show you.”

“A wealth in paper you carry,” the Avvar noted with a nod. “But better your pack should be full of food or arms.”

“Ah, but this-“ Octreimon countered, flipping open to a dog-eared page and turning the book to show a lavishly inked illustration to Helfgar. “This is what I seek, and is worth far more than wine or water.”

“An elf?” Helfgar asked, flatly unimpressed.

“No, not just an elf. An _elvhen_ , and ancient elf, one of the citizens of Arlathven. This one is a practitioner of an ancient style of magic that used mana rather than might to power his sword. They called him an _arcane warrior_ and it is what I would be.”

“And you came to find one to study from?”

Octreimon did a juggling sort of shrug. “Well, yes and no. To the extent of my research I have never found word of a living arcane warrior. I can’t so much learn from a teacher as, well... hope to find the remains of one, or more preferably his library.”

“So you’ve come to these lands not to learn, but to steal from the dead? I am not sure about your kind of magic, Ray.”

“Octreimon,” the altus corrected.

With a sigh of frustration, the Tevene cast about the woods around him for something to demonstrate his magic with. He stopped and turned to his right, to have something hit in him the shoulder and glance away to disappear into the underbrush.

“What the-“

Helfgar roared, pivoting to brace his right leg and then _heaved_ his spear in the direction the mysterious missile had come from. Octreimon’s eyes followed the Avvar’s spear as it grazed his ear and then imbedded itself into a tree, haft quivering with the impact.

An angry hiss and a flailing of eight massive limbs revealed the giant spider that Helfgar had impaled to the great tree, and with a surprised shout, Octreimon stumbled back and fired a bolt of amorphous arcane energy from the tip of his staff.

It glanced off the spider’s thick hide as it fought to free itself from the spear that Helfgar had driven through the thick connective tissue between abdomen and thorax.

While the spider hissed and flailed and Octreimon fought for balance, Helfgar drew his axe and shield and took three steps towards the spider before a second missile caught him in the knees. It proved to be a thick wad of webbing, and instantly adhered the Avvar’s legs together and nearly bore him to the ground,

Octreimon straightened, sparing a glance at the wad of webbing that had nearly attached to his neck and shoulder and likely would have blinded him in addition to whelming him to the forest floor, not to mention being a _beast_ to get out of his hair.

The altus took another shot at the spider, aiming for the creature’s eyes now and seeming to have more effect than the pot shot against its abdomen. Helfgar and the spider both pulled themselves free of their bindings and closed the distance between; while Helfgar merely tore the webbing with a growl and violent kick, the spider left a chunk of its hide on the tree, black ichor dripping thickly off the spear.

While Helfgar deflected a bite from the spider off his shield, the spider seemed intent on inching around the Avvar and perhaps making off with some softer prey. One eye was locked on Octreimon, who had had _quite enough of this_.

Shifting his staff so his right hand was free, he clenched his fingers into a brief claw in front of his face and then flicked his wrist towards the spider. It staggered for a moment, clenching its abdomen and taking another step sideways, staggering, and then exploding into a mass of liquid gore. Legs flew in all directions, with its heavy mandibles skittering across the hard-packed earth to come to a rest on Octreimon’s fine leather boot.

Helfgar stood, stunned, as ichor coated his shield, dripped off his nose, and oozed down his legs and arms. He turned to look wide-eyed at the pristine Tevene some distance away.

“Right, sorry about that,” the altus said cheerfully, and waved his hand at the Avvar. The multitude of tiny bits of spider exoskeleton that had imbedded into Helfgar’s flesh when the arachnid exploded were pushed out of his skin as the small wounds seemed to heal themselves. “Usually there’s nobody standing right next to them when they blow.”

Helfgar blinked, and then started to nod. He walked over to the Tevene with one hand outstretched.

Octreimon looked at the ichor-dripping appendage with thinly veiled displeasure. Before he could decide whether or not he would shake the proffered hand, Helfgar raised one thumb and sketched a line of spider ichor across the altus’ forehead.

“Right,” he said, still nodding. “I don’t think I mind that sort of magic.”

Octreimon reached a hand, disbelievingly, towards the malodorous goo adorning his forehead. He tapped two fingers to it, stared at the black substance for a moment, and then dropped his hand back to his side. He grinned broadly at Helfgar.

“I’ve heard spider leg makes for a grand feast,” he suggested, pointing at the mostly-intact limbs scattered in an impressive radius from the puddle of goo that had recently been a spider.

“We’re going to damn well find out,” Helfgar laughed, gathering up the legs before jerking his spear out of the tree. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“No idea,” Octreimon admitted cheerfully.


End file.
